Sunrise on Panama
by wrldpossibility
Summary: I'm reposting some old stories from my LiveJournal page, at the request of some readers who can't access those. This is an alternative (happier) ending to 2.20, Panama.


"Sara, what's the matter? The ship is leaving."

"Michael?"

"What's wrong? Sara!" He grips the cell phone tightly in his palm. He hears the sharp edge to his voice, but right now, he doesn't have the strength or energy to conceal it. He's been hovering on the brink of _finishing this_ all day, yanked back and forth at whim over the chasm of success and failure, and now, all he hopes to do is cling onto this one thing that still matters.

"I'm already on board. I'm sorry. I must have just missed you. Where are you?"

She's saying the words he wants to hear, but a shrill warning is still sounding in his head. He feels her slipping from his grasp and that instinct is causing his blood pressure to spike dangerously, his adrenaline surging until he can no longer stand still at the railing and wait. He spins around anxiously. "We're on deck."

"Great. I'm on my way up. Love you."

He snaps the phone closed, and narrows his eyes in thought. Beside him, Lincoln shifts his eyes from the gray water churning below them to assess Michael. "We good?"

"Yeah." But he doesn't feel good. Something doesn't sit right. _Where is she?_ He mutters something to Lincoln about meeting her below, and takes off, searching the stairwells and narrow, tight hallways of the ship. It takes him several minutes, and by the time he returns to the deck, his chest feels so tight he's surprised he can draw breath at all. Lincoln is still standing alone.

"I couldn't find her."

"Michael! I'm right here."

He whirls at the sound of her voice, so level and calm it slides over his panic, smothering it like honey. She's coming up behind them, through the stairway he could have sworn he had just searched. Relief washes over him with such force, his head literally falls back and he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a beat before he can look back at her. She smiles.

"I told you I was on my way up," she says. Their eyes lock, and a poignant silence seems to surround them, the space between them as electric as a live wire. Michael is about to close it when the sound of sirens cut through the air. He nearly jumps.

They all turn back to the rail. "Damn. Check that out," Lincoln says, pointing across the harbor to the line of police vehicles wailing their way along the surface road. The red and blue lights seem dull against the gray sky. Beside him, Michael hears Sara's shaky sigh. He turns to her.

"They were that close behind you." It's a statement, not a question, escaping his mouth in a rush of breath, and once he's said it, he feels marginally ridiculous for stating the obvious. But Sara's still staring across the water, and she doesn't seem to notice.

"Yeah. I had decided…" she hesitates. "If they had caught me at the corner, before the docks, I would have stopped."

Michael has to close his eyes again. He blinks, then shakes his head as though to clear it. She's only feet away from him. _What is he doing, standing at this rail?_ He reaches out one hand. "Come here," he implores.

He sees the expression on her face shift; a soft light entering her eyes. As she crosses over to him, he can see the slightly self-conscious smile that's playing about her lips just before she sinks her face into his neck.

"Sara." His arms go around her waist as his entire body tingles at the feel of her against his body. Somewhere over his shoulder, he hears Lincoln mumble something about finding some food, and then he sees his brother disappear down the stairwell and they're alone.

* * *

 _When was the last time they were alone?_ Sara keeps her face buried in Michael's neck as she waits for Lincoln's retreating footsteps to fade. A second later, she hears the sound of his boots clanging against the metal stairs, and all at once, she feels inexplicably nervous.

They are not accustomed to this…this much space. This much time. There's a sense of over-abundance in the air, and she's almost afraid of having this much to work with…so much hope at their disposal. _Why is she so cynical? Why is she so afraid?_ Michael is running his hand up and down her spine, and the slow slide of sensation through her shirt leaves both comfort and sharp tension in its wake. She feels as thought she'll jump right out of her skin.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes catching hers again, and she sees her uncertainty mirrored in his gaze. She needs something definitive. She needs something concrete, physical, and real. _Kiss me,_ she thinks desperately, willing him to read her mind. _Kiss me, kiss me -_

He kisses her, and _oh God,_ this is going to be ok. This is going to be _…oh._ His mouth is warm in the cold air, his tongue sliding across her lip and then running against hers with the perfect amount of insistence. Of confidence. It's as though they've been doing this both all their lives and never before, and she tilts her head back, barely containing the whimper that rises at the back of her throat as his hand slides around the back of her neck and tangles into her hair.

He kisses her until she's breathless. She had always assumed that was only a manner of speech, but right now, she literally does have to stop, have to brace her hands on his shoulders and rest her forehead into his, panting softly. Michael's hands slide to her hips, and then back up to her waist, back and forth, in a caress that is starting to heat her blood and cause her to shift from foot to foot in a sudden impatience. She looks back up into his face, and the memory of their old easy banter returns to her. She's feeling more daring now. "Ready?" she prompts flirtatiously.

Michael lifts one hand to her jaw, tilting her face back up to his. "I was just waiting on you," he smiles. When his lips come back down on top of hers, they're still curved playfully, and she nips the lower one softly with her teeth, feeling his light laugh vibrate against her mouth. She feels the heady rush of unexplored opportunity…of so much discovery laid before her, and the last vestige of her fear fades. Her smile disappears, and she's kissing him urgently, her hands on his neck, then his chest, then sliding down to grip the belt loops of his jeans. He's flush against her, and the feel of him, hard and pressing, sends a shot of anticipation to flood her belly.

She kisses him on and on, not caring where they are, not caring that she's acting like a lovesick teenager. When his hands encircle her ribcage and waver, his thumbs barely grazing the underside of her breasts, she's acutely aware of where he really wants his hands to be, if they were anywhere private, and she can no longer resist arching against him, her pelvis aching deliciously as it fits against his.

* * *

 _They need to stop. They need to stop, or he risks jumping her right here, on the deck of a cargo freighter._ He knows it's true, but still does nothing about it until he feels her hips slide into his, her body rising up against him in the very definition of supplication. Then, he pulls his mouth from hers with a groan, and draws his hands away from her chest _-my God, his fingers are just yearning to cup her breasts-_ and instead wraps them around her back, pulling her very tightly against him. They are still flush together, but neither of them can move, and right now, that seems like a good thing.

She laughs lightly into his shoulder, and he grins back, even though he knows she cannot see his face. He doesn't know how long they've been standing here by the rail, but as he turns them, Sara in front of him, so that they're facing the water, he's surprised to see the sun already sinking into the horizon. Due to the direction of the ship, they're sailing away from the sunset as opposed to into it, but suddenly, that seems like a very small detail. He wraps his arms more tightly around Sara, the wind cutting across his face, and feels her press back against him, a low sigh leaving her chest.

He leans in close to her ear. "Are you cold? Because we can go below deck."

She turns slightly in his arms, and he catches the smallest trace of nervous anticipation in her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed slightly pink, and he's not at all sure it's from the wind. Suddenly, he can't imagine why he ever complained that the passage to Panama takes nearly an entire week.

* * *

His suggestion to go below deck immediately brings several quite colorful images to mind, and she turns in his arms, hoping to gauge his intention. His expression is guileless, and yet, she's certain the steady heat of desire that's licking along her spine like a flame is not just in her imagination. Certainly he feels it, too. She's not sure how to respond.

"I don't mind the wind," she answers truthfully. Then, deciding to hedge her bets, "But maybe we should find out where we're supposed to be?"

Michael seems to approve of that idea, because he turns her around by the shoulder, and leads the way back across the deck. At the narrow interior staircase, he looks back and reaches for her hand. She could navigate the steep steps just fine, but right now, she doesn't see how pointing that out will at all benefit her. Without a word, she slides her palm into his, and the spark of raw longing that jumps from his fingertips to hers answers her earlier question, and nearly causes her to trip. She stumbles slightly before recovering her footing.

His grip tightens on her, and his eyes widen. "Ok?" he asks.

She smiles self-deprecatingly, shaking her head. "Fine."

He looks at her for another beat, and she just has time to wonder if she's imagining the hint of smug laughter in his eyes before he resumes down the stairs. At the bottom, they follow a maze of narrow, low-ceilinged hallways that must make even the most seasoned sailors aboard feel claustrophobic. Every few yards, Sara has to duck slightly to avoid hitting her head on exposed pipes.

"Maybe we should go find Lincoln," Michael suggests.

"Oh. Of course." The last thing in the world she wants to do is find Lincoln, but it does seem to be a reasonable course of action.

Five minutes later, they find him playing poker with several crew members in the back of the galley. At the sight of them, he lowers his hand to the metal table and digs into his front pocket.

"Here," he tells Michael placidly, sliding a slip of paper and a plastic Midland Freight Line ID/keycard across the table. "I already won a hand." He raises his cards again, concentrating for a moment. "It'll get you into a single cabin." He nods toward a tall man sitting next to him. "This is Kyle." Kyle merely grunts, looking a bit put out. "He'll be bunking with me in good ol' gen pop this week."

"Uh, Linc-"

Lincoln only slaps a card down on the pile. "I'll see you in the morning," he says levelly.

* * *

Sara's face is so close to his own, Michael can feel her breath falling against his cheek. If he were to turn his head, even just a few inches, he'd be kissing her again. He's just decided to do exactly that when she speaks.

"I need to wash that out," she says, tipping his chin in her hand so she can more closely examine his cheekbone. He knows she's looking at the worst of it, where the skin is open and raw, an ugly streak of a wound marking the path Agent Kim's military academy ring had blazed across his face. She rises, walking into the tiny cubicle of a bathroom that opens off of the small cabin. "I'll have to go find a first aid kit, eventually," she calls back to him, "but soap and water will do for now."

He sits obediently on the side of one narrow bed-the bottom one of two bunks-and waits for her to return. For her to come back to his side with soap, and water, and that enticing blend of barely coiled energy and tension that's radiating off of her in waves and which he cannot get enough of. He wants to wrap himself up in her and forget everything else for a very, very long time.

Instead, she returns with questions. Complicated ones. She leans over him again, and the wet washcloth is a welcome warmth on the sting of his cuts. "What went wrong?" she asks.

He looks at her, surprised. "Nothing. Until Caroline's announcement, I thought everything had gone to plan."

Her eyes narrow, a tiny line appearing in in her brow, as she continues to study his face. She touches a fingertip to his cheek. " _This_ was according to plan?"

"I knew I'd have to go through several lines of defense before I got an audience with the president," he explains. "I thought…" he hesitates, feeling disappointment sluice through his gut anew. "I thought we had done it."

Her hands still on his face, and she lowers the washcloth. "You did everything you could," she says quietly.

Michael sighs. "But still," he says, reaching for her hand, "I wanted there to be more than this." He makes contact with her bare forearm, and encircles it lightly, letting his grip slide loosely down to her wrist. His fingers intertwine with hers. He sees her gaze shift from his face to their joined hands. "I hoped that by the time we were _here_ ," he nods his head toward their hands, "we would be running toward something, instead of still running away."

Her fingers tighten around his, and he has to swallow hard before looking back up at her. "Only a few hours ago," Sara says, "I didn't think we'd be running anywhere at all."

Michael wants to take her words at face value. He wants to just believe that this is enough for her. Instead, he finds himself shaking his head. He must be a sadist to be turning over her words like this, peering underneath for a deeper, truer meaning. "You shouldn't have to settle for this…this freighter," he states darkly.

"I don't think I _am_ settling," she answers without hesitation, and the unmistakable note of irritation in her voice strangely uplifts him. Still, he won't let himself off the hook.

"You told me once that running away with me wasn't a solution. That it wouldn't make things right."

"Michael." Sara says his name like a reproach. "We've come a long way since that day." She unclasps her hand from his, and he watches as she brings it back to his face. She doesn't tend to his wounds. Instead, she sets her palm lightly on his cheek, running the pad of her thumb back and forth along his jaw. "We don't have to follow anyone else's agenda. Circumstances aren't the only thing that shape us."

She looks directly into his eyes, and his mouth goes dry. He has to swallow hard again. He mirrors her most recent movements, lifting his own hand to cup her face. They are only inches apart; he could count the flecks of amber in each iris, if he were so inclined. "You're saying we're molded by our actions?" he asks her.

Her nod is barely decipherable. "Our actions. Or decisions. _We_ choose whether to act on, say, righteousness. On honor and obligation." She blinks, her gaze shooting quickly down to her lap, and then sliding back up cautiously. "On love."

Michael feels the periphery of his thoughts suddenly waver and blur, his reason unraveling at both ends. He leans forward, dipping his head to gently capture her mouth with his. Their lips barely touch, and he kisses her very softly and slowly, his tongue tracing her bottom lip in a languid tasting of her. When he pulls back, he feels her shudder. " _We_ choose where we go next," he finishes for her, his hands never leaving her face.

She doesn't answer. He sees something shift in her gaze-her expression darkens-and then she places her opposite hand over his atop her cheek. She grasps it, and slowly lowers it, placing it deliberately on the soft stretch of skin just above her hip. She shifts forward into him, causing his fingers to slide, just reaching the soft curve of her abdomen. "Let's start here," she tells him, and her voice is low and somber and lust rises like wildfire in his groin.

He kisses her again, and this time, everything is different. Her mouth opens under his, and his tongue seeks hers urgently, sliding against it with sensual strokes that cause a moan to rise in her throat. His hand on her hip kneads her flesh firmly, then the tips of his fingers slip under the waistband of her jeans to the impossibly smooth skin beneath.

Instantly, her stomach tightens; he can feel the rise of her quick, soft gasp against his palm. For a second, she seems to be holding her breath, frozen, then she exhales, and is kissing him again with as much ardor as before. He splays his hand, feeling the hollow below her hipbone, drawing her closer. His other hand rubs the back of her neck, then reaches to cup the back of her head and hold her against him.

His lips are nearly raw from her mouth when he finally pulls them away, angling his head into her neck and trailing his tongue across her collarbone. She arches back in invitation, but again, he doesn't miss the subtle tremor that runs through her. He would have assumed it was in pleasure, but her shoulders are tense as well, her hands suddenly still on his waist. He draws back just enough to capture eye contact. Sara holds it for a moment, then lets her gaze fall back down, leaning in to kiss him again. "Hey, wait," he gasps, lifting both hands to her shoulders, holding her at bay. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head quickly. "Nothing," she breathes, but her eyes contradict her. They find his again almost wildly, wide and clear, and Michael can see a hint of panic in them that bellies her words. He runs his hands across her shoulders, rubbing softly, willing the stiffness to disappear.

"You do know we can wait," he whispers to her. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sara lifts her gaze and looks around the room in recognition of the four closed-in metal walls of the ship cabin-the ship itself-and offers a shaky smile. "Yeah, you're pretty much trapped here for the duration."

Michael smiles back at her, touching a finger to her lips. "That's not what I meant."

Sara's silent for a moment. She's still breathing heavily. They both are. "This room?" she begins hesitantly, "it has a _door_ , Michael. And for once, we can both be on this side of it, alone, for as long as we want." She laughs nervously at herself again. "That's terrifying."

He's not sure what to say. He stares at her, trying to wade through the plethora of images that have immediately come to life and crowded his brain since the moment she said the word 'door'. "Well," he ventures, "that's exactly it. We have time, Sara. Let's just…take all we want."

She gives him a look-half gratitude, half invitation-then diverts her attention, her eyes narrowing in on the small mole on his left temple. With another smile, she closes her mouth over it, then he feels her tracing it lightly with her tongue. He groans, clenching his jaw, trying to remind himself why he had just told her they could take this slow.

* * *

Countless minutes later, time has become a shapeless, shifting thing, as fuzzy and elusive as her thoughts. It's a variable she can no longer measure, a constriction that for now, at least, no longer applies to her. At some point, she'd fallen backward onto the bunk, and while she's still dressed, Michael's hands are on her everywhere. She kisses him while he touches her, while wave after wave of delicious sensation engulfs her. His hands explore the full curve of her breast, skim down the flat of her stomach, skirt her hip, then run down and back up her thigh. He's laying beside her, over her, against her, and she can no more stop the urge to arch up toward him, hooking her leg around him, than she could ever stop herself from loving him.

She runs her hands up under his shirt, across his chest, then back down, dipping her thumbs under the waistbands of both pants and boxers, lifting herself up to him. He grinds back against her, then pulls back, rolling onto his side. He brings her with him, and she lays on top of him, staring into his face. He looks distinctly tortured, caught between pleasure and pain. He breathes heavily, looking up at her, trailing his hands along her waist, fingering the hem of her shirt.

"Take it off of me," she breathes. His eyes narrow slightly in question, and she knows she's not above begging. "Time is beginning to seem overrated."

His mouth opens slightly-for an instant, she swears he looks ten years younger-and then he's lifting her shirt and slipping it over her head. It's flung to the ground, and then his face is buried in the pale skin of her stomach, then higher. When he closes his mouth over one breast, she whimpers, and arches forward again, suddenly desperate to feel him against her, nearly frantic to unite hard need to soft, aching flesh.

He reaches up and grasps her behind, holding her firmly to him, and the hot, sharp slide of friction nearly undoes her. After that, it's as though it can't be fast enough for either of them. He fumbles clumsily with the clasp of her bra, and then his mouth is hot on her nipple and he's rolling her, pinning her to the bed while his hands tug on the snap of her jeans in desperate, clawing lust.

In ten more seconds, his clothes have joined hers on the floor, and she slides his boxers quickly down and off, reveling in the freedom of complete and total abandon. Her short-term memory seems to have been wiped clean-she has no recollection now what she could possibly have been worried about. She palms him, thrilling at the way he presses himself into her hand, kissing her so hard she has to break away, gasping for breath. He's groping her, his hands seemingly everywhere at once, and she shifts helplessly-blissfully-against him. She feels wanton and needy and insatiable, and she absolutely does not care.

There's nothing between them now, nothing except her, and him, and he's positively trembling on top of her, every muscle along his back and shoulders quivering with sharp, tense anticipation. She knows he wants her like she's never been wanted in her life, and the realization sends her own desire racing through her veins with an intensity she's never experienced. He's just waiting, looking down at her, an instant away from taking her. From having her. She lifts herself in supplication, her body arching, asking, and he answers, entering her in one smooth thrust that overtakes them both.

* * *

Afterward, it's as though they regain their appreciation of time. They lay in the narrow bunk for hours, a tangle of bare skin and bare thoughts, and neither of them care that they're hungry, and injured, and tired. To Michael, the tiny cabin feels eerily familiar; the thin mattress on the metal bunk disquietingly similar that in a prison cell. He feels Sara, naked against him, and smiles to himself. Given his present company, he can't quite decide how he feels about that connotation.

They have a week. They have a week in which time will stand still, giving them a chance to catch up. To make it right, and maybe, make up for all that was lost somewhere along the way. They have a week, and then they have forever.


End file.
